


Resurrection, and the Life

by cassyl



Series: Lazarus [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Not Really Character Death, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassyl/pseuds/cassyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sherlock’s falling, he realizes that something’s gone wrong.  Luckily, John has a trick or two up his sleeve.  "Pushing Daisies" fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resurrection, and the Life

**Author's Note:**

> Someone [suggested this](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/post/38131708450/devinleighbee-fanfics-that-need-to-be-written) over on [fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/) a while back and I couldn't get it out of my head. It's not an exact fit, but it's what I've got. If anyone else has tried their hand at this, I would love to read it.

The clouds are closing in, promising rain, the rapport of the shot still loud in his ears. _Oh, just kill yourself, it’s a lot less effort._

As it happens, faking a suicide is surprisingly tricky. He hopes Moriarty appreciates the trouble he’s gone to.

Tossing his phone behind him, he takes his mark. Then he leans over the edge, the wind urging him forward, and lets himself go.

As he’s falling, almost faster than thought, he realizes that something’s gone wrong. The angle isn’t right, or the lorry below is just slightly out of position, or maybe he didn’t get far enough away from the ledge or maybe or maybe— 

The hell of it, he realizes in that split-second, is that he’ll never get to find out now.

And then there’s John—

*

He wakes to bright white, and all he can think is what a terrible cliché the afterlife is. Then his eyes focus properly and he realizes it’s just the ceiling of Barts morgue.

Somewhere, close by but vague beyond the ringing in his ears, John is shouting. There is another voice, too, a woman’s, meek, thin, frightened. Molly.

“You’re telling me he _planned_ this?” 

John. _John._

“It—it wasn’t— He never meant to— It was only supposed to _look_ like—”

“Like _what_ ,” John snarls, daring her to say it. 

“He made me swear not to breathe a word. I warned him, I tried to say, but he—he promised he’d come back, once he’d—once it was safe.”

No, wait—

Something is not right. 

He knew John would want to see the body. He’d been prepared for that. On the pavement, that was the plan. Let him get close enough to take a pulse, since that alone would convince him, and then pull him off. Under no circumstances should John be allowed into the morgue. Under no circumstances should John be there when he came to. 

The sedative must have worn off more quickly than he anticipated. He must have—

Then he remembers the rushing panic as he realized he’d miscalculated. He remembers the sick crunch of his skull on the iron railing of the lorry.

“John.” The words scrape themselves out of his throat, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. 

They both stop arguing to look at him. The room is utterly silent now.

He tries to push himself up on the gurney, but his limbs are plastic, unresponsive, and he falls back down. On the second try, he does better and lurches into a sitting position.

Molly lets out a low noise of dismay, pulls back. John doesn’t so much as flinch.

“I was dead,” he says.

John nods. “Yes, you were.”

*

“But how?”

Having been transported back to Baker St. under the cover of darkness folded into an extra-large holdall so as not to arouse suspicion, he feels he deserves answers.

John doesn’t answer, just sits there like a statue on the sofa, holding a cup of tea between his hands.

“John, _how_? How did you do it?” He sits down on the sofa and reaches out to take one of John’s hands.

John jerks away as if he’s been burned. “Don’t touch me.”

Sherlock withdraws. “All right.” He holds his hands up, a placating gesture. “You’re angry. I understand. I realize I probably deserve it, but—”

“No, you don’t,” John says. Gone is the vitriol of this afternoon. There’s no more shouting. His voice is low, dangerously even, which is worse. “You don’t understand. I swore I would never do this again, but I saw you lying there, and I knew I didn’t have a choice.”

“John, what. I don’t understand.”

John’s mouth is a grim line. “I did it for you.” 

*

“Show me,” Sherlock says.

“No.”

“Not on another person.” Sherlock is bargaining. The Kubler-Ross model could not have prepared him for this. “Something small. A pigeon, a rat.”

“No,” John says again. It’s all he’ll say now, now that he’s explained what he’s done, what he can do.

 _It started in the desert_ , John told him. He couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eye, just stared down at his hands as he spoke. _There was a boy, only nineteen or twenty, shot in the chest, some damned training accident, and I remember thinking, ‘This isn’t right, this can’t be.’ So I just . . . willed him to live. I touched him and he came back to life. A minute later, the man in the bed next to him dropped dead. That’s how it works. One life for another, an even trade._ Then, finally, John looked up at him. _I did it for you._

“John, please,” Sherlock persists. “I have to understand.” 

But John’s answer is the same. 

*

“What happens if I touch you?” 

“You go back to being dead.” 

“Just like that?" 

“Just like that,” John says. 

Panic rises in his chest as he thinks of how he relies on that guiding touch, John’s hand at the small of his back, John’s hands pulling him back from the brink. He reminds himself that John had no choice, that he should be grateful. 

“So what am I now? A zombie?” 

“Don’t,” John says. 

“Am I, though?” 

John gets up to make more tea. 

Their tea has long gone cold when John says, “I don’t know what you are. You’re mine.” 


End file.
